


Luck of a Venitian

by GreyscaleHyena



Category: Marco Polo (TV)
Genre: Anal, Bisexual, Blow Jobs, Contest, F/M, Fingering, Kissing, M/M, Marco Polo - Freeform, Mongols, Multi, MxM - Freeform, OT3, Oral, Orgasm, Pegging, control/domination, cunninglingus, historical fiction - Freeform, interracial, mmf, mongolian, mxf, mxmxf, netflix, pinning, three way
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-07
Updated: 2015-01-07
Packaged: 2018-03-06 12:36:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,078
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3134744
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GreyscaleHyena/pseuds/GreyscaleHyena
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Marco is chosen to take part in a ancient ritual between two warriors he counts as friends. </p>
<p>Of course, nothing can ever be quite what it seems if your name is Marco Polo.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Luck of a Venitian

Kaidu’s victory at Wuchang hung above the war camp like a joyous flurry of fireflies; men, women, and child alike reveled in the prosperous news, their hopes lifting the concern for the upcoming siege on Xiangyang. Throughout the encampment came the happy calls of friends and family reuniting, musicians already composing Kaidu’s heroic deeds into song, all overlaid by the chilling calls of the new batch of Chinese prisoners captured at Wuchang.

The last of these melodies sat heavily in Marco’s heart. He could not deny the part of him that sympathized with their wretched cries and waving, grasping hands – After all, he’d once been the unwilling guest of the Great Khan not so long ago – but an equal part of his soul reveled in the defeat of his enemy.  
 When had the victories become his own? When had ‘theirs’ become ‘his’? His mind screams at him to finally follow Kokachin’s orders and run home to Venice, tail tucked to live meagerly off the infamy of his father’s name, but his heart… His heart burns for the trials of making his own name, to strike his father and uncle’s names from the history books. Marco smiled somberly, shaking his head as he wove through the horde of canvas tents that dotted the outer fields of Xiangyang, thinking heavily on the childish flare that has dominated his thoughts of late. Undoubtedly Hundred Eyes would find some way to mock him if he were to speak of his desires to prove himself, and promptly embarrass him enough to make him want to do it even more.

Caught in his thoughts, smiling at an older woman who offered him a ladle straight from pot, he almost missed the insistent hissing directed at him from a nearby pavilion tent. Marco turned in the direction of the sound, a frown creasing his brow when he was met with only the visage of the leather door flap sliding back into a resting position. Perhaps the call was not for him? Maybe it was not a call at all. 

Shrugging off the uneasy feeling that he was being watched, the Venetian turned to thank the matron, only to look around bewildered when not only the woman was gone, but her fire tamped out and delicious pot of stew gone with her. Now feeling as if some grand joke was being played on him, Marco placed authoritative hands on his hips and firmly fixed his face should it be a group of youngsters who should know better, “If this is some jest, it would do you well to—“  
“ _Hsssssssssssssst_ … Marco!”

Turning quickly back to the tent, Marco’s hand dropped as he took in Byamba’s wide smile, a disembodied head peaking from within the folds of the tent, “Byamba! I took you for a gaggle of mischievous children, hell bent on pushing my patience.” Marco paused, his own smile pulling up the corners of his lips at the sight of his friend, “Somehow, I am not sure that I was wrong.”

His friend gave a huffed laugh, rolling his eyes as he held the tent flap aside to allow Marco to enter, “Aye, says the fool who just tried _övs buurchee tsai_.” Marco spat the remaining taste of the woman’s ‘grass dropping tea’, wiping his mouth on his tunic as Byamba roared with laughter, ushering him in before letting the door fall back into place.

The air within was dry and hot. Four thick poles supported the spacious ger, a squat brazier glowing merrily upon a leather pad at its very center. Already Marco could feel the beads of sweat gathering along the high neck of his deel, the dark fabric almost too much for him when faced with the sudden swath of heat.

“Did you just say _övs buurchee tsai_? Good man!” Sat lounging upon a gathering of furs and cushions, Khutulun’s angular face and high cheek bones caught the flickering red light of the brazier when she smiled, “Perhaps we shall make a Mongol of you yet.”

“Perhaps. Why do you not join the feast?” Eyebrows arched, Marco followed Byamba’s example in settling upon a cushion of his own, crossing his legs beneath him, “Surely your father will notice your absence.”

“My father will notice little more than the bottom of his cup and the attention from the Khan of Khans. Besides, I have a feast of my own planned.”  
Byamba’s booming laughter stole his attention from the warrior woman’s gleaming grin, his own confused smile fixed in place as he looked between the two, not understanding the joke he was missing out on. 

Luckily Byamba took pity on his confounded expression. “Khutulun and I find ourselves caught in a bind and require your assistance, friend. “ Byamba’s strong hands rested upon his own knees, his chest framed by his thick arms as he leaned forward, smile dropping as he became quite serious. On his left, Khutulun took a similar position, posturing herself to mimic Byamba as they looked sternly upon their foreign friend.

“Will you do it?”

Marco looked between them, feeling as if he’d missed some critically important point. Was this cultural? Some test? Still a joke he hadn’t caught on to? Settling into his cushion and straightening his back, Marco coughed politely into a closed fist to clear his throat before looking back to their waiting gazes, “You know I would not deny you – either of you--” his gaze shifted to Khutulun for a moment with a flash of a nervous smile, “--anything, but… I must admit that I feel I have missed something. What am I to be doing?” He spoke the words in a drawn out lilt, hoping he was not offending either of the proud warriors before him.

“You, _Master Polo_ , will be our judge.”

Khutulun’s words hung in the air between them for a moment before the stern resolve of Byamba’s face cracked and a smile snuck its way back onto his lips, “We need a third party to parley this contest of ours, and we are both quite sure you would be the best to suit our needs. The contest is an ancient one that will require all of your resolve, skill, and merit to complete. Will you do it?”

There it was again. Such a simple question, but one Marco still was not sure he could answer fully. An ancient contest? What if he were to judge incorrectly, call the wrong winner, and set everything out of balance?

None of that was important – If they thought he was the right person for the job, then God help him, he would do his best to honor their request.  
“Alright, I shall do as you ask.” Mentally preparing himself, Marco squared his shoulders and leaned closer, face almost grim in his determined state to do right, “What shall I be judging?”

Thick as thieves, the pair of warriors looked to each other, their grins stretching to matching points before looking back to their willing prey. It was Khutulun who moved first, crawling off her cushion with all the grace of a wild cat, blinking long dark lashes up at Marco as she placed herself directly before him and completely within his personal space.

“Why, a _kissing_ contest, Master Polo. Byamba and I have been arguing for _ages_ over whose technique is best, and as such have decided an outside source would be the best, namely a certain _delicate flower_ who desired us both.”

Her words were like black silk; thick, soft, and impossibly tempting as she brought her mouth close to his, eyes flickering to his own lips, “Unless of course we were wrong in our assumption….?”

Grey-green eyes tore themselves from the tempting sight of Khutulun’s waiting mouth before him, her tricky smile drawing him in, to catch eyes with the much taller son of the Khan; Byamba did not have the natural good looks claimed by his half-brother, but to call him anything but comely would be a hideous lie. Their trip to the Hashashin had brought them close and Marco would call happily upon him as a friend, but kissing… Byamba rewarded him with a lazy smirk, obviously enjoying the sight of Khutulun settling herself into Marco’s lap, and sealed the curious gaze with a wink that had the Venetian blushing.

“You were not wrong.” The husky quality to his own voice surprised him, but little thought was on himself when Khutulun surged forward to engage in the battle that was her kiss. Fire. Heat. Passion. Her mouth was made of molten things that seared against him like a brand. Thrown immediately onto the defensive, Marco struggled to overtake her—mouth to mouth, slotted in a messy kiss, their tongues dueled furiously to gain the upper hand and dominate the other. But her kiss did not stop there; teeth came quickly into the mix while she sucked his lower lip into her needy mouth, worrying the soft flesh between them as a soft growl escaped her throat.

Marco gave his own pleasured call in return, arms quickly wrapping around her waist to crush her athletic body against himself. Lick, suck, bite, burn—the process repeated until Marco felt himself grow hard under her ministration. To his dismay, however, Khutulun only retreated, giving her sinful bark of a laugh as she shoved his chest hard.

“Now, now Flower,” She tsked at him, settling back upon her original perch while he struggled back into a sitting position. A quick drag of her sleeve over her abused mouth, her eyes travelled to Byamba, who cocked his head to watch Marco noisily catch his breath. The thickly muscled warrior rested back on his arms now, waiting from the foreigner to make the next move. After a moment, he motioned with his head for Marco to move closer, supporting his weight upon one arm so that he could use his free hand to capture Marco’s wrist.

“A fine effort, surely, but this will be my victory, daughter of Kaidu.” Marco, despite his nerves, complied with Byamba’s slow, yet confident command until he had all but crawled in the warrior’s lap. Happy with his caught prize, Byamba released the pale wrist and trailed a slow touch up Marco’s sleeved arm and shoulder, brushing briefly over his wildly erratic pulse before the strong fingers sunk deep into the thick curls and waves of the European’s hair. Marco’s eyes flashed wide before the kiss took his breath away, his nervous flare melting away like hoarfrost on a summer morning; where Khutulun was searing heat and pleasure, nails raked over a lover’s back in a moment of passion, Byamba’s kiss was the cool taste of control.

Full lips pressed soft kisses to the corners of his mouth, pulling away the nervous jitter that kept his mind tracking back to the woman only feet away. Tension seeped from Marco’s body as they kissed, the slow touches building into something earnest and fiercely wonderful, a deep, soul-stealing exchange Marco feared would take the life of him. Byamba’s kiss pooled in his gut, building, growing, igniting until his thoughts were filled only with thoughts of the man’s hard jaw and clever fingers; these kisses were dangerous – the kind of kisses that left you without reason.

So lost in his embrace, Marco could barely control his own wandering hands as they made a curious trek across the broad lines of Byamba’s chest, a mewling whimper echoing between their mouths. 

The Khan’s son pulled away from their kiss first as Khutulun had done, using his leverage on Marco’s hair to look down upon his face, “An easy call for you Latin, if your looks are anything to go by.” The warrior chuckled darkly, ignoring Khutulun’s indignant snort as she stood and moved to slowly circle them. Marco, in his best try at normalcy, blinked owlishly before snapping his mouth closed, cheeks burning at the two very different styles of kiss he’d just received – how was he ever going to choose which was ‘better’? Was there some sort of prize gained from a victory in such a competition? Attempting to catch his mind back up to his fevered body, he almost did not hear her response.

“Of course it would seem so after all my hard work to get him into such a state. If it had been you to go first, our roles should be reversed and he’d be melting under my touch.” Marco could almost hear the smile in her voice as she trailed blunt nails carefully across his scalp, her presence registering at his back.  
“Oh? And what do you suggest we do about it? Call a draw once more and send poor Master Polo on his way?” Marco could not help but feel that he had been snared into some game between the two, if their devious smiles and sly responses were anything to go upon.

“Not exactly; Perhaps we… _raise the stakes_?” Suddenly her words were closer, an intimate caress against his ear that sent a thrill of arousal up his spine. Still held in Byamba’s firm grip, he could not contain the nearly muted sound of contentment that escaped him as he squirmed in the bigger man’s lap – Raise the stakes? What stakes? He couldn’t find it in him to question either of the Mongols, especially not after Khutulun wrapped an arm around his neck from behind to tug him back into a second kiss.

“My thoughts exactly – First to make him come undone is the winner, aye?” 

Caught in Khutulun’s snare, back arched and groaning, he could feel her low laugh as it bubbled up through her throat but could not see her eyes as they flickered to Byamba before murmuring her approval, “Settled. To battle, my friend!”

Byamba moved slowly, hands dipping into the crossed top of his deel to search for the skin hidden beneath the folds of fabric. At his back Khutulun worked at unfastening her bracketed vest with one hand, the other sliding up his neck to hold his jaw in place as she sought her leverage to deepen their kiss. As before, her tongue dueled his own, tasting every bit of his mouth as she could manage in the least amount of time. Struggling to free his shoulders from the upper half of his clothing, Marco managed to extrude his arms and let the loose cloth pool over his belt so that he could reach for her.

“You are going to lose, Byamba; look, he can hardly resist. You might as well surrender your defeat now, Prince.” Khutulun had also lost her upper confinements, tossing aside her vested tunic in time to catch Marco’s hands before they could reach her. The ruddy-colored shift was quick to follow along with her furred belt until she was completely nude before them.

“Ah, but I have not even started trying yet. It would be a shame if he finished now, what with no one touching him – are you such a youth that the mere _sight_ of a woman is enough to undo you, Marco?” Heavy hands clasped his sides, callused thumbs tracing up his sensitive ribs to rub slowly over the dusky protrusions of flesh that pebbled there. Byamba’s words burned hot shame into Marco cheeks, flushing over his chest as he tried to break away from Khutulun to argue against such a point. 

Lips soft and puffy from too many kisses, Marco glared back at the Khan’s warrior son, “Maybe _Khutulun_ will be the winner after all.” Both Khutulun and Byamba laughed, the former tugging at his arms until he slid onto his back, hips arched from the bunched fabric around his waist.

“Our flower has thorns, Byamba – See that you are not pricked. Worry not, I shall find a better use for that tongue.” Nimble as a fox, Khutulun pinned his wrists above his head as she straddled his neck, her long braid tickling his cheek as she leaned down to speak to him, “Come on Latin, show me your skill that melts foreign ladies like snow.”

Hardly believing the situation he found himself in, Marco’s eyes dropped to the swell of her womanhood as it hovered before his nose before surging up to give it a kiss of his own – if it was a duel she wanted, he’d give her one hell of a fight. Laving the flat of his tongue across the parted lips, Marco sampled the strong tang of her essence with a moan, his nose buried deep into the soft patch of hair above the hooded nub. Above him Khutulun purred her approval, grinding her hips down to reclaim control and ride against his mouth.

Not willing to be outdone, Marco felt Byamba’s mouth move in slow tandem with his hands, peppering kisses upon his chest and sides as big hands quickly rid him of his braccae, blunt teeth and scratching beard trailing eagerly over the sensitive flesh of his chest. Drawing his nipples into taunt peeks, Byamba took one into his mouth, capturing it between his teeth to tweak. Gasping at the sudden flare of arousal, Marco redoubled his efforts in pleasing Khutulun, curling and uncurling his tongue in tight circles against the more sensitive parts of her swell. He wanted his hands badly, but any tug to try and free them was met with a harder grip and a laugh.

“Good try Latin, try harder next time and we shall see where it gets you.” Pinning him with only a single hand now, she patted his cheek in an affectionate manner before looking over her shoulder to Byamba, her grin growing as she dropped her hips to begin riding in earnest.

“Take care not to break his face; I’ve seen the way you control your ponies, Khutulun.” Byamba’s voice was mockingly sweet as he felt down Marco’s toned hips, dipping massaging hands to gird beneath Marco’s already swelling cock, trailing his nails over the pulsing veins in a sear of excitement. Marco moaned, envisioning his friend’s jovial face hovering above such an intimate part of him, touching him like a well trained courtesan. Was this common place in the orient? Men lying with men, touching each other as such? The thought was… provocative, to say the very least, and Marco’s mind was suddenly filled to the brim with the possibilities that accompanied such thoughts.

Khutulun, who’d grown tired of her play thing becoming lost in his own mind under Byamba’s ministrations, tsked loudly before dismounting from the foreigner’s face, “Seems our friend has his mind elsewhere, eh Marco? Are your thoughts on Byamba now?” Releasing his wrists, her hand wound to near pain in his hair as she tugged him back up into a sitting position, pressing her cheek to his while together looking at the much larger man before them, “Is that it, Latin? Well, go on; give him a taste of your skillful mouth.”

Her words were hot whispers against his skin, her slim fingers tracing his chest as if the mere thought of watching them was enough to keep her going.  
Marco looked at Byamba from beneath his lashes wet mouthed and panting; Byamba’s thickly muscled neck and arms, Byamba’s strong thighs from years gripping a horse, Byamba’s easy smile but also his fierce rage. Khutulun released him with a little push, moving away as if to search for something, but Marco was lost in Byamba.

Slowly fumbling to his knees, Marco reached for the warrior, unsure of what to do or how to do it. Byamba, on the other hand, gave a chuff of laughter before bending to close the space between them, thick arms encaging his back as he had done to Khutulun earlier. Like a dog, Byamba cleaned the messy remnants of Khutulun’s juices that sat slick upon his face, a broad tongue sensually delving over and within his lips. It was raw, unfettered, so achingly erotic and unusual that Marco groaned. Heat flared vibrantly into his gut, blood thickening his own arousal where it pressed wantonly against Byamba’s thigh.

Marco’s pulse pounded like war drums in his ear; _More…more…more_. The European’s hands skimmed down the warrior’s chorded biceps, curiosity peaked by the differences to a woman’s body, or even his own. This man was iron, living steel molded into a fiercely loyal friend – and the more he focused on how wonderful this man’s kiss was, the less he cared about what lie beneath the charcoal grey braccae he wore.

‘ _Quite the opposite…_.’ Marco hummed thoughtfully, eyes closed as his mouth was plundered, shaking fingers brushing further down the man’s body where it pressed against his own body. He found that he… he desired to touch more – to taste—

Byamba growled into his open mouth, teeth snapping hungrily as Marco’s fingers pet nervously over the tented fabric below his waist, hips grinding forward to further the touch. Filled with determined courage to prove himself the right choice for such a contest of skill, Marco pulled against his captor’s arms, hands growing bolder as they sought beneath the fabric for his prize.

“Do you want to taste his _cock_ , Latin?” Khutulun’s voice would have startled him, had he not been fixated on relieving Byamba of his pants. She accented the words, almost purring them, as she slid behind him with a chuckle. Seconds later he felt her firm grip on his hips, followed by a pull that forced him onto his hands and knees, “Do it, Marco.”

Byamba’s hand worked through his hair, fingers massaging his scalp and tugging against his curls while he waited for Marco to fish him out. His cock was broad and thickly veined, already half filled as it pulsed against his palm – how would he ever take such a thing? Stealing a glance at Byamba, Marco gave a lopsided half smirk, tentatively brushing his bottom lip against the inflamed tip. He could do this – he couldn’t give stop now.

The taste was unpleasant. Scrunching his nose, Marco fit his lips over the entirety of the head, sucking to create a pull he knew he himself liked. How did whores pretend that this was some sort of gift? Byamba’s cock, while not overly long, was thick and curved, filling his mouth as he tried to find a way to breathe around it. Khutulun laughed behind him, her rough hands running up and down the backs of his legs, her long hair fanned over his hips. He didn’t know what she was doing, but the attention was welcomed none the less.

Attempting to lessen the straight on his jaw, Marco bobbed his head, a single hand cupped against the base of Byamba’s shaft to hold his hips in place. His tongue curled against the bottom of it as he watched Byamba’s face for signs that it was good for him, his own motivation to do well spurning him to move faster and grip harder, his mouth stretched wide.

A sudden touch against his most intimate of places had him surging forward in shock, the action gagging him. Khutulun huffed at him, affixing her hand firmly around his hip as she drug him back with a smack, treating him like she would an unruly colt. Her strong touch was back moments later, thumbs rubbing and pulling on either side of his sphincter. Marco gasped, head dropping as she brought her mouth into play, wetting his hole with short quick prods of her tongue. His face burned red in embarrassment, hips shaking as he tried to decide if it he liked it or not. 

A tug to his hair had him looking up, blinking in hazy confusion to Byamba who only smiled at him, releasing his hair to cup his chin, offering his cock once more. Panting, he squirmed away from her violating touch and allowed Byamba to fit his cock once more into his mouth, trusting the grip upon his face as the warriors took control of him. Khutulun’s nimble fingers stretched him slowly, delving right then left as she fucked him with her tongue, eventually sitting back and watching him writhe upon two fingers. Curling pressing, searching, Marco moaned around Byamba’s thickness, back arched as two fingers became three. It was too much…not enough... he didn’t even know anymore.

Not to be outdone, Byamba picked up his speed, deepening his rolling thrusts as Marco grew accustom to his width, no longer gagging on him. A hand moved almost lovingly through his hair, comforting him as he moaned, occasionally skimming his neck before dipping down his spine. Khutulun withdrew her fingers with a happy hum while unstoppering some sort of bottle, if the sounds were anything to go on.

Smooth pressure replaced her own hands and Marco shifted nervously against the burning stretch, closing his eyes. The new tool was a smooth shaft made from highly polished yew wood, burnished and repolished until it shone like a gem -- Sealed and heated many times over with wax, the slick phallus gave little resistance when coupled with the thick oil Khutulun had coated it with. She bit gently against his rump as she worked it into him, always slow as she twisted the shaft before pulling it out. 

Push.

Pull.

The pattern repeated until her hands are moving quickly in time with Marco and Byamba’s haggard grunting, her wicked smile brilliant as she watched them burn in lust.

Marco is tasting Byamba in earnest now, his head lost to the passionate heat that consumes lovers. He wants more, craves it, and greedily sucks at the cock in his mouth, pressing his head against Byamba’s tightening grip. His own neglected cock rubs erringly against his own stomach, smearing it with sticky strands of precum. He should feel shame, being used as such, but the thought could not be further from his mind as he arches for more, growling his own satisfaction.  
“Enough! I need—I need—“ Marco finally speaks, pushing away from them both to regain his breath. His body sways for a second as his hands find his own desire, stroking against himself while watching the pair before him, “I need …everything – but I know not what to ask for…” He wants them both, needs them both, but his mind has swirled into a dangerous state of incomprehension.

Khutulun smiles, turning her back to him before falling forward with a grace he can only guess at. Arms stretched before her like a cat in the sun, her hips raised up upon her knees as she sways for him. Between her spread thighs peaks a wet mess of arousal, her cunt winking merrily at him to come mount her. Is this how the stallion feels? Seeing such a display Marco groans, crawling to her slowly over the rumpled pillows and furs they have disregarded. They need not speak, for Byamba moves as well as Marco covers her, rutting against her slick heat until sliding home within her. The pair moans together at the joining and Marco reaches for the Khan’s son, glad to already find him at his back. Seated to the hilt within Kaidu’s daughter, he offers himself to Kublai’s son, hands gripping tight to Khutulun’s hips as Byamba presses against his entrance.

‘Too much…too much… too-..’ the words repeat like a chant in his head while Byamba fills him, keeping time with his pulse. He has to move, he needs to move; Khutulun clenches tight around him, her hips already pressing back against him as if to tell him to get on with it.

“ _Move_ , Latin!”

And they move. Their momentum is staggered as first, offset until they find a rhythm that has Byamba rutting hard at his back and Khutulun writhing at his front. Push, pull, push, pull. Marco is lost before he has time to cry out, hands scrabbling against Khutulun’s back as his hips stutter, cock pulsing in his release.  
Byamba, however, is not as close; pinning him deeper inside of Khutulun, Byamba takes him as a dog does a bitch, arms slotted against his hips, pistoning into him in hard rolling thrusts. Marco can only moan, thankful for the merciful numbness of his hips before the thrusts sharpen to quick snaps, ending in a hard final thrust that has both Marco and Khutulun moaning in relief.

The trio collapse, rolling into a sprawl of dirtied clothes, ruined cushions, and sweaty skin. The silence of the tent broken only by the hard sounds of their mingled breathing, each too relaxed and sated to do much more that lie there.

\--- --- --- --- --- --- --- --- ---

Marco is the first to sit, looking between the two warriors who lay on either side of him, smiling in afterglow bliss. How would he ever choose? “I do not know if I can choose a winner… I fear I have failed you.” Still breathing hard, Marco watched as the pair slowly opened their eyes, similar looks of uninterest marking their faces.

“Choose a winner for what, Master Polo?” That is Byamba’s low timbre, his eyes closing again as he stretches, unashamed of his debauched clothing and exposed cock.

Marco just blinks, turning instead to Khutulun, “Wh- what… for the contest; You chose me to judge you both and I have merely stated that I do not think I could—“  
Both warriors try, and fail, to hide the grins that stretch their faces, Byamba failing first as he breaks out into a laugh. Confused, Marco is about to ask why they are laughing before Khutulun props her hands behind her head, grinning at him from her place on the floor,

“What contest, Master Polo?” Her eyes gleamed, teeth flashing in a bright smile as she winked.

Marco sat in dumfounded silence for a moment before a laugh caught him off guard. The laugh grew, sounding overly loud in his own ears in the quiet of the tent before he cut it off, falling back down to lie beside the snickering warriors.

“And here I was believing you did me some honor. Next time I will not be so deceived.” The exasperated mirth and relief rang clearly in his voice as he sighed, covering his eyes with a thrown arm.

“ _Next time_ , eh? Who says you should be so lucky?” Byamba snickers to himself, rolling onto his side to avoid a lazily thrown punch aimed at his arm, reaching out to ruffle the mass of curly chestnut hair of the man next to him.

“Never doubt the luck of a Venetian, my friend.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you all so much for reading my first ever fan-fiction posted to Ao3 (Second ever written,,, heh). If you enjoyed, please leave a comment, a kudos, or not! 
> 
> My tumblr is http://tolkientrek.tumblr.com/ ! Follow me for more fic updates, silly random shit, etc.
> 
> I do take fic requests/prompts, but only for pairings I personally ship (SORRY!)
> 
>  
> 
> I look forward to writing more for this wonderful fandom!


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